We are gathered here together to mourn the loss of our dear friend and family member, MySpace. MySpace is survived by her beloved husband Tom, and their 143, 286 million children.

It is good to see so many of MySpace's children here today. Goth Girl, Hip Hop Artist, Guy in Sun Glasses and a Popped Collar, Two Girls Making Out, and Guy With No Shirt. Thank you for coming.

I first met MySpace five years ago through a friend. She was great. We listened to music, we read to each other, and we passed the time when I was supposed to be doing actual work.

She helped me catch up with old friends, and meet new, sluttier friends. 

Myspace was kind and forgiving, and didn't judge me when I told her I liked Maroon 5.

I thought those days would last forever, like the ads for some dating site where it looks like a webcam of a hot chick checking me out. But she started falling in with the wrong crowd. Before I knew it, all her friends had become pornographers and con-artists, and worse, Rupert Murdoch.

I could barely talk to her without her telling me about Fox's newest buddy cop film or what Lindsay Lohann may or may not have said. Most times I visited, she was blasting terrible music or trying to sell me a giftcard to Victoria's Secret.

After a while I didn't even recognize her – and not just because she was covered in tacky HTML and glittery cursors like some two-dollar whore. Even Tom wasn't really around much anymore.

Let's remember the good times. And I mean really remember, not the way that MySpace would tell you to click "remember me" and then not remember you next time you signed on.

Remember how hilarious it was to see everyone over 30 years old list themselves as 99. Remember getting to interact with not only your favorite celebrity, but with 14 other people pretending to be your favorite celebrity. Remember how entertaining it was to listen to your friend's favorite song EVERY SINGLE TIME YOU LOADED THEIR PAGE.

And remember the lessons she taught us. Remember that just because you have three kids at home doesn't mean you can't show strangers what you look like bent over a couch. Remember that teenage outcasts can pretend to have names like "Illusion of Chaos," while their real name is Sheldon. And remember that every fat girl has at least one picture of herself taken at precisely the right angle.

I'm going to miss you, MySpace. How else will I get girls I don't know to come to shows, and then maybe sleep with me after? I mean, I could just search by zip code. And they were all so mad at their dads.

We're going to miss you, MySpace. But we will be comforted to know that you're in a better place now. With Friendster.

(By Steve Hofstetter and Mike Trainor)